her bent old body plows a furrow
in the field of time.
She has bled into the earth,
eaten unleavened bread
with sacramental wine
Old Mother seasoned with
sorrow, proud of her pain
and the daily acts of contrition
that may bring absolution,
or that may crumble
like the gauzy wings of moths
Forgiveness is the key, thanks for sharing this lovely poem. Sherry.
Ron